A Dog Day Evening
by Sandra J
Summary: Hardcastle sends McCormick on a mission that cuts deep to the younger man's heart, but McCormick accepts the challege and comes away changed.


For Zsuzsi

A Dog Day Evening

Judge Hardcastle couldn't sleep in spite of the soft warm breeze that lifted the curtains on his bedroom windows, in spite of the lullaby of crickets and night birds or the rhythmic thundering roll of the waves against the breakers that protected Gull's Way from the Pacific Ocean. He'd lain sleepless and guilty for hours and now stood apologetically at Mark's bedside.

But Mark was asleep.

Judge Hardcastle wondered if he should wake up McCormick, apologize for placing him in such an awkward personal position. But just because HE couldn't sleep didn't mean McCormick shouldn't. He settled himself in a chair in Mark's gatehouse bedroom.

Mark shifted with a small moan and the coverlet fell off the side of the bed, the sheet slipping part way with it and the judge could see that his young charge was clothed in only boxers. He grimaced at the exposure and stood to pull the covers back up around Mark's strong shoulders.

The prison tour had been meant to scare the living bejesus out of some at risk juveniles but it had all gone wrong. Sure he'd done it before with great results, but that was on his own. This time he'd involved Mark who had been released to his protection (that was a laugh) only to be dragged back to the very prison he'd been incarcerated at, to interact with inmates he'd served time with and listen to their jealous cat calls. And as if that wasn't bad enough, he'd been used by the rebel faction. God only knew what they had done and said when they took McCormick away from him. Heck _he_sure didn't know and McCormick wasn't telling.

Hardcastle stood, pacing restlessly. He'd been foolish. He always believed that his judgment was perfect that he didn't make mistakes. He shook his head and snorted softly, his robe flapping softly like a fawning dog about his legs. The air was fresh and cool in the Gate house. McCormick always did like to keep a window open.

The windows in the Coyote were always open, the windows in the main house got opened when Mark was there and the Gate house, well it could have been a barn since McCormack moved in there. Hardcastle had often shouted about this. But as much as he hated the additional cost for heating or air conditioning with a window open he knew in his heart why his young charge did that.

He'd lost his freedom once and now, well it was a simple connection with the world, openness and possibly even an escape.

Judge Hardcastle pulled his bathrobe snugly around himself and moved back to the chair plopping down.

Mark shifted once again, his legs kicking restlessly as he let out a low moan.

"No!" he breathed softly before his body stilled.

The Judge slumped back, questioning his judgment for the umpteenth time once again, wishing Mark was awake, wishing the younger man would tell him what had really happened today. He wanted vindication in this unfortunate incident…no…that was too light a justification. He wanted forgiveness.

Mark McCormick awoke after the sun had risen. He stretched catlike and pushed the covers down to his waist relishing the cool breeze that ruffled the window drapes and caressed his bare chest. The air carried the sweet scent of gardenias in bloom and the soft songs of larks and finches were definitely preferable to waking up to an alarm or the sonorous voice of a guard shouting above the blaring horn that signified morning in prison. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and let his bare feet make contact with the pleasant coolness of the floor.

Scrubbing a hand through his unruly golden brown curls McCormick yawned and stood, letting the covers drop away, meaning to head to the bathroom for morning ablutions. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and as he started forward he caught sight of a familiar plaid robe tie laying on his bedroom chair…the judge's robe tie.

Mark was suddenly wide awake. The robe tie wasn't there when he went to bed, he was sure of it. He stepped to the chair and picked up the tie, an eyebrow cocking. This was interesting. The Judge had been in his room during the night. He stared at the robe tie and playfully decided that he'd simply put it where Judge Hardcase couldn't find it and let him sweat it out. With an impish grin he rolled up the robe tie into a tight small ball and stuffed it in his pants.

Hardcastle looked exhausted as he slumped over his plate of bacon and eggs, unshaven chin propped up on a balled fist and the morning paper lying across the table. Mark walked quietly into the kitchen, scuffing his feet when he came into full view and watched as Judge snapped to attention, dropping his fist and sitting back, head held aloft but eyes staring intently at the morning paper.

"Looking tired Judge," Mark commented as he slid into the chair opposite. "Have a little trouble sleeping?" He tried to sound innocent as he pulled the plate to him, lifted off the cover and savored the bacon aroma.

No, no…no…no!" the Judge responded a little too vociferously. "I slept fine." He leaned back and met Mark's eyes challengingly.

"Me too." Mark tucked into the eggs, chewing a huge bite, savoring the Judge's cooking. "But you know I had a strange dream…"

The judge grunted, looking down at his own unfinished plate.

"I dreamed that someone was in my room watching me…for a while too. But he wouldn't talk to me and took whatever was bothering him back to his bed." Mark took a bite out of a triangle of toast. In prison they didn't even bother to cut the toast, let alone on the diagonal.

"Strange is right," Judge Milton Hardcastle retorted. "Why in the world would someone want to watch you sleep?"

Mark shrugged and smiled knowingly at the Judge who he noted cast his eyes down on the paper. He shoveled his fork into the breakfast, reaching over and taking the sports section from the Judges' paper.

"Hey!" the judge protested, but not too much and Mark settled in with some light reading.

"Here's something," Hardcastle commented and Mark could hear in his voice that it was more than just something.

"It's a gambling bust. A Pitbull fight that was interrupted by the boys in blue." He stopped as he read on. "Most of the participants ran out when the bust came down, but the 3 who were taken into custody are saying that Bucky Lastra is involved." The judge snorted. "I've been wanting to get this guy for years. He's into any betting venue. He walked on a technicality last time," Milton Hardcastle commented dryly. "He's on the list for more than gambling, but I'll take anything I can get. Are you up for this?"

"A dog fighting ring?" Mark questioned.

"Nah!" The judge waved a hand at McCormick. "That's just the tip of the iceberg. I know this guy. He's into way more than this. This is what he's been fingered for by the little people. I had him for race fixing once, and another time for running numbers. And once for Medicaid fraud, but he slipped through Lady Justices' fingers every time. I swear he's cost this state millions of dollars and laughs in our faces and keeps on accumulating our money. While he becomes a millionaire illegally the people lose their money to him. He should have been put away a long time ago."

"But dog fighting Judge," Mark questioned. "Sounds like something the ASPCA would go for him on, not the venerable Judge Milton Hardcastle."

Hardcastle looked up at Mark annoyed. "Dog fighting is the way in, the open door. We'll use that to get in and take him down for the bigger stuff. Bust him for one thing, and have a second unit at his office ready to tear apart the paperwork and get the other betting venues, search for the Cayman accounts, figure out the money laundering end of the business…that's what will take him down hard!" The Judge jabbed a finger at Mark, his eyes blazing.

"Aw come on! Dog fighting?" Mark protested. "All this ties into dog fighting? Dogs are cute and friendly…man's best friend and all that stuff."

"Not these dogs," Hardcastle shook his head. "They might have been if they'd been raised by someone like you, but they were raised to fight since birth." He shook his head. "This isn't a joke. You have no idea what goes into dog fighting. It's a symptom of some crime much larger. And if you think these people care about the dogs, you're sadly mistaken." The judge defended his position, lecturing pedantically.

"But they're _dogs_, soft, obedient, looking to us for love and protection…"

"Not the way they get trained," the Judge shook his head. "They get no love, no pat on the head or warm bed. They are kept outside or in a cold pen or shed, and treated no differently than your overgrown toenail."

Mark's eyebrows rose.

The judge took silent enjoyment in knowing more than Mark about a "street" subject. "They're tethered to a spinning wheel called a cat-mill jenny which looks like a carnival horse walker with the prey of the day secured to it. They run until they are exhausted and aching and finally the prey is given to them, alive (usually someone's pet) as a reward."

Mark swallowed hard, his mouth turning down and brows furrowing.

The judge nodded. "That's right boy. Some kid is going to bed missing kitty or rover and crying himself to sleep, while in some warehouse or back yard kitty or rover is squealing out a last pained breath with entrails exposed and a beast made more horrible and fierce than was ever intended by humans…and for their own greed."

The judge stared unwaveringly at Mark, his eyes locked onto the younger mans and jaw jutting.

"Well now that's just gross…uncalled for and even…even…well depraved," Mark McCormick finally gasped out, eyes fiery and face horrified.

The judge suddenly winced inside, wondering if he'd said too much, if Mark had lost a pet, gone to bed weeping and somewhere…But no, he wouldn't go soft on a subject that hurt everyone involved, animals and people alike. He kept his eyes on Mark who admirably stared back, lips growing tight and fists clenching and unclenching.

"Okay Hardcase, you've sold me. Let's go after this Bucky Lastra. Ands let's shut down some dog fighting."

The Judge nodded once emphatically.

Hardcastle wondered if he'd pressed the dog fighting issue too graphically. It was what it was; soft and tender words wouldn't sweeten a bitter picture. For a kid that had been in jail McCormick certainly hadn't lost all his softness. He hated the way he repeatedly used McCormick. He didn't mean to, it just happened. He got onto a subject near and dear to his heart and he went into law enforcement mode. It was no different than the debacle in the jail field trip. Well this time the Judge thought silently he'd have to do a better job protecting McCormick.

The lieutenant didn't let Hardcastle see his amused smile as the Judge rooted through his files like a hog looking for truffles. McCormack noted it however and saw the twinkle in his eye too, which bode well for the acquiring of information.

"Bucky Lastra now…you going after that slippery eel? Well good luck to you." The lieutenant chuckled with a shake of his head. "We've sure tried, but he wiggles out just before we tie pull up the hook."

The Judge lifted his head, meeting the lieutenant's eyes. "I've got a grudge to repay, and this guy just doesn't know how to get lost. He walked out of my courtroom on a technicality with a smirk on his face and a challenge in his eyes."

"Oh, and you'll never let a challenge go unanswered," McCormick chortled with a shake of his head. "Or is it that he challenged you and won?"

"Neither," the Judge answered as he rifled through the files. "It's that justice must be served and this guy has cheated the system for far too long. It's not right."

Mark noted the forward thrust of Hardcastle's jaw, the intense concentration as he perused the Lieutenant's files. Ole Milt was like dog with a bone, digging deeper and deeper in an attempt to uncover something of value.

"Ha!" the Judge declared triumphantly as he held up a sheaf of papers and waved them like a victory flag. "I knew he couldn't stay out of trouble! And you…" he pointed at the lieutenant, "have been keeping tabs on him too!"

Mark leaned back against the lieutenant's desk, shifting to sit one tight denim clad buttock on the edge. He crossed his arms on his chest and simply enjoyed the soft breeze that slipped silently through the office window, cleansing the sour smell of cigarettes and old coffee that permeated the police station.

The lieutenant gave Mark a look of warning and the younger man stood back up sheepishly. "That's right Milt," the Lieutenant spoke. Lastra and his crones are up to something, and I suspect it may be money laundering."

"Using dogs?" Milton Hardcastle's voice rose with his eyebrows. "That's a new one on me."

"Not as crazy as you think." The lieutenant pursed his lips and fixed a knowing stare on the Judge.

"Nah," Judge Hardcastle answered with a determined shake of his head. "There's got be something clean in the process of money laundering. Dog fighting is just plain dirty." He locked eyes with the lieutenant then after maintaining a commanding stare dropped his eyes to the file he held. "This is probably just about making some money gambling. Fixed fights, paying people to lose. There's plenty of money to be made there and if he gets caught the penalty isn't anything too rough either. This is typical Bucky Lastra, easy money, little time and slippery."

"A pretty safe investment then?" The lieutenant nodded. "I have to tell you, this one's not a top priority. We haven't any hard evidence of money laundering, though it's got to be there. The scales of justice tend to lean towards violent crime and murder, and only dabble in gambling when there's time or the murderers are sleeping."

McCormick laughed disgustedly. "Too bad the scales weren't tipped to the murder side when I reclaimed my car!"

Hardcastle shot him an icy stare. "Maybe Lady Justice did you a good turn. You would STILL have been a car thief and who knows what else if you hadn't been caught and prosecuted. Now look, you have it good…a nice home to live in, a kindly benefactor and a real job, in addition to helping to dispense justice. Pretty good trade off I'd say!"

Mark shook his head but didn't bother to answer. When Hardcastle had an idea in his head, it was best to just let him go with it. The Judge found flexibility difficult and trusted his own decisions. Mark wouldn't sway him, at least not here where the Judge knew he held sway. And one thing Mark knew was to choose his battles wisely.

"So if this is a "little time" deal why are we even going after him?" Mark questioned, an eyebrow cocked.

"Because at worst we get him and he goes away for a few years, at best we find out more and can do some real damage, find more than just the dog fights." Hardcastle gripped the file firmly his eyes fiery.

Mark nodded fighting back a swell of dread. Hardcastle was too gung ho. This guy must really have gotten to him, and that could only spell trouble. Hardcastle could be a pit bull himself and when those judicial jaws locked down they weren't going to open until justice was obtained. And worse, Mark knew, he was most likely going to be the bait.

"So," the Judge spoke too cheerily. "Let's get a copy of this and go back home. Maybe sit poolside and figure a plan to take old Bucky down," he nodded too eagerly at McCormick.

The lieutenant shot a knowing grin at McCormick who returned his grin with a grimace.

"Let's go, times wasting!" The judge bellowed as he turned for the door.

Hardcastle sat hunched over the files at a poolside table, the light breeze rippling the pages of the file just enough that he placed a glass of ice tea on the leading edge to keep them in place. Mark picked up each page as Hardcastle finished it, perusing the paragraphs, hoping to glean something the Judge wouldn't.

"Wow, Judge, this guy has slipped through lady justice's fingers more times than a con's…well…you know." He paused as Hardcastle dropped the file and raised his head, staring at McCormick tight lipped.

"No need to get graphic," Hardcastle spat, scowling.

McCormick shrugged, grinning lightly, quietly happy to see the Judge's discomfort. "Don't fret; I'm only saying he sounds like a couple of years in the slammer wouldn't hurt. He's done far more than I ever did but hasn't served a day as I see it."

"Darn right!" Hardcastle agreed as he eyed Mark skeptically, not wanting to be taken in by his young charge's challenge. "And it's up to us to toss him in and lock him up, not an easy job, so you'd better get reading and try to figure out a way to nail this con." He stared hard and long at McCormick, asserting his authority, the alpha dog taming an out of control pup testing the waters.

McCormick leaned back in his chair, listening to the rustle of the palm fronds and feeling his curls lift on the tender fingers of the breeze and caress the back of his neck, dance around his ears. The sun was warm; its rays caressing his skin, making him feel relaxed and lethargic. The soft keening of the gulls wafted easily through the air as the basso profundo of the waves pounded on the breakers. This was far better than trimming bushes that grew endlessly and too quickly, or scooping bloated dead bugs out of the judge's pool.

"I vote you let me talk to few old friends and I'll get us in and participating," Mark shrugged lazily as the Judge shot him a sharp stare.

He had no "ins" in the dog fighting world; in fact he couldn't even imagine who he'd call to get involved. Sure he had a few grateful cons that might be able to find another less grateful con that might if pushed to find someone who could help, but that didn't make for very secure cover. Still it was better than the "nothing" plan that Hardcastle had at the moment.

"You were a car thief!" the judge protested soundly. "You don't know anything about dog fighting!"

Mark leaned back in the chair, secure in the knowledge that Milt had no clue what being in prison was like, what bonds could be forged and what information could be bought with a pack of cigarettes (and even nonsmokers knew enough to purchase smokes). It wasn't so much what you knew as who you knew and though Hardcastle was aware of this on an intellectual level, it was the visceral level that counted.

"I don't need to know about dog fighting," Mark countered, "I only need to know someone who does, and I need to have him owe me a favor." "He grinned at the Judge. "And I have just the person who owes me."

Hardcastle scowled across at his young charge. He wished he had found something…anything he could use…in the files, but Bucky Lastra was nothing if not careful. He didn't like McCormick in the 'in charge' position. He didn't like not having a cohesive plan and mostly he didn't like relying on a chain of cons to take down someone like Bucky Lastra Hardcastle tried not to growl but couldn't hide his distaste as he queried Mark.

"So someone who can help us with dog fighting owes you a favor?" He hoped his eyebrow wasn't twitching as he took two deep breaths.

"I'll get us in Judge," Mark replied nonchalantly.

Hardcastle nodded with out smiling, fighting to maintain control. "You work your end, I'll work mine. We'll see who comes up with the best plan."

"Take it easy," Mark assured. "I can handle it…Nothing to it!"

Mark lay awake all night thinking it through. He'd have to go back and visit one of the cons he'd been friendly with who was still waiting release. He'd bring the con some cartons of cigarettes and candy bars, promise more if anonymity was arranged. This guy had more connections than Ma Bell. But he still worried about whether he could proceed with total anonymity. A chain of cons was only as good as its weakest link.

In the end Hardcastle won out. The cops had been watching Bucky Lastra. One of them, working undercover had a peripheral connection to the dog fighting world.

Hardcastle broke it to McCormick over hot coffee and orange juice on the patio as the warmth of the California sun started its daily trek westward.

"So one of the vice undercover cops is working a case involving...well never mind what…but the important thing is that we can hooked into Bucky Lastra's dog fighting ring." Hardcastle spoke matter of factly, not looking at McCormick, sensing the younger mans disappointment at the rejection of his own idea.

"But Judge," Mark protested, "I know I can do this."

"Yup. Sure you do. But I'd rather have the cops knowing what we're doing and easing us in than relying on a bunch of cons." He spoke dismissively, though he wasn't aware of it.

"But a referral by cons HAS to bear more weight in _this_ group!"

Hardcastle dropped his morning paper and met Marks eyes. The kid was trying hard, but he didn't see things from the right side of the tracks.

"Look, we're going in on the undercover's referral. I won't accept argument on that point."

"But Judge!" Mark continued protesting only to be silenced by Hardcastle's raised hand and unwavering stare.

"Nope. There's always someone who can offer more to a con. An undercover cop can't afford to refer someone who might blow their cover. He won't sell us out for more cigarettes or the best offer from the highest bidder." Hardcastle held Mark's pout with his stare.

"You know, for once I wanted to put forth a plan you liked. That doesn't seem to happen much!" He stared wryly at the Judge. "I wanted to set things up, get myself into a position where I could get things done quickly and efficiently and try for ONCE to do a job for you that I had set up and followed through on." Mark sighed and shook his head in frustration.

"This is safer, that's all", the Judge conceded. "I don't want to put you at risk," he coughed and averted his eyes. "Or myself either. I only want us to stop Bucky Lastra and maybe make a dent in dog fighting. That's all." He let his eyes drop to the table.

"I appreciate that," Mark conceded reluctantly. The Judge was right, as much as he wanted to lead, Cons were Cons and there was plenty of area for error. He couldn't put his faith in thieves and liars.

"What do you want me to do?"

Mark paced restlessly in front of "Los Envios...Checks Cashed" as Hardcastle sat hunched down in his truck far enough away to not attract attention, yet be able to see what was going on.

Mark watched as a drunk staggered across the street and turned up a neighboring road. He saw a child on a bike pedal past, spitting out a wad of gum. And then a petite woman wearing tight leather skirt so short that he could almost see her panties and a shirt that was no more than a neon green second skin approached him. She sauntered over, eyeing him up and down, the tip of her tongue flicking hungrily across her too crimson lips.

"Ooh, you're cuter than I was led to believe," she spoke softly as she brushed against him. "But are you UP to the task?" She tipped her head back to meet Mark's eyes; her thick curly hair fell softly against her shoulders.

McCormick slipped an arm around her shoulders and walked her over toward his car, noting the melodic soft Spanish accent…South American?

"I'm UP alright. But I'm not into the violent or kinky stuff."

"I can't spare you that, but I can get you into the scene smoothly," the woman answered as she leered suggestively at him. "And from what I was told, that would be sufficient." She slipped a slender strong arm around Mark's waist, leading him away from the store front. "I'm going to give you a piece of paper with an address on it and a name. Go there and tell them that Anita Vasquez sent you."

She pulled out a piece of paper from her cleavage, opened the paper and pressed it to her lips. "My signature," she smiled secretively as her eyes twinkled.

McCormick took the paper, holding it carefully so he didn't smear the distinctive lipstick. He felt Anita pull softly away from him, her slender shoulders also strong and sinewy.

"Good luck," she nodded and gave him a sad half smile. "And take care. This is something that most people would never want to see and the man you seek…" she shook her head with a barely noticeable movement that wasn't lost on McCormack's keen eyes.

"Thank you," Mark responded. "Am I supposed to kiss you or shake your hand?"

"Neither really. Just look disgusted and push me away."

"A shame to do that to a pretty lady, and one so cooperative…"

"Part of the job," she responded softly and more heavily accented in Spanish, but Mark heard and understood.

"Too much money for someone as small and plain as you!" he declared indignantly, shoving her away with less vehemence than she really wanted.

She shouted back to him in Spanish so quickly he had no idea what she was saying. Her eyes blazed and she swung at him with surprising speed.

Mark reached out with a con's defensive reaction and deflected her blow, grabbing her wrist.

"Make it look like you're hurting me," Anita whispered fiercely and Mark responded by twisting her arm behind her as he had had done a few times. He raised his other fist but Anita ducked and covered her face and feigned crying.

"Let me go! He tells me what to charge! I won't bother you again!" Anita Vasquez cried out as if she was in pain as she looked back over her shoulder and Mark noticed a black man slouched low in the driver's seat of a big Buick Skylark, a vintage model. His eyes were fixed on Anita. He gave his head a tiny shake and slunk down lower.

McCormick released her and Anita Vasquez ran, disappearing into an alley. Mark shook a fist at her, inwardly admiring the undercover cop's spunk, and then he turned back to where he had parked the Coyote.

McCormack sat in a well appointed office, leather couch, dark paneling, and soft muted carpet. He swiveled in the chair across from a handsome mahogany desk and made eye contact with a small, thin man with beady eyes, a prominent hooked beak protruding from a waxy complexioned face wearing a suit with shoulder pads sewn in to try and add bulk to the otherwise wimpy physique.

The room was dark and smelled faintly of cigars and whiskey, and through the bottom crack on the door, the stench of cigarettes and spilled beer leached over into the room from the bar which concealed it.

The little man in front of him sat back against the chair, hands clasped on the desktop, mouth unsmiling and eyes so dark and alert they seemed almost pupil less, like a shark, though of course McCormick knew the shark never stopped moving and this guy sat still as a statue.

"Anita Vasquez gave me a name and told me that after I saw him I was to wait a day. Finally I was given this address. And let me tell you, that Anita _wasn't_ forthcoming. And the guy she sent me to was downright scary…the beat up trailer…the remote location..." Mark shuddered. "But I'm a guy who knows what he wants. I have a dog that can go against the big time. And I'm hearing that YOU are the big time." Mark smiled slyly, leaning slightly forward into the smaller man's space, making sure his strength and stature was imposing.

The two men met eyes, locking stares. The thin man leaned forward by a few well noticed millimeters and Mark met his advance and then some.

"What makes you think your dog is so good?"

"Ten kills." McCormick felt his stomach turn, but didn't flinch.

"Clean?" the thin man challenged.

Mark pushed his chair back violently enough to cause it to smash on the floor behind him and stood, planting his hands firmly on the smaller man's desk, close enough to be able to raise them in offence or defense.

The thin man raised an edge of his top lip defiantly, but sat back in his seat.

McCormick leaned closer, driving the thin small man into the cushion of his chair.

"So what will it be?" McCormick demanded more than asked. He stared fixedly at the smaller man.

"We're in," McCormick announced over poolside supper at Gull's Way. The Judge forked a bite of his barbecued steak into his mouth, followed by a forkful of grill roasted potato. "We just need to get ourselves a dog and arrive at this address at the time indicated." McCormick hesitated, realizing that although he'd accomplished his portion, the rest of the task might be more difficult.

"No problem," the Judge replied without even lifting his head. He sawed away at his beef, freeing up a portion and stabbing it.

McCormick waited as the Judge chewed and swallowed, then started silently cutting again.

"Wait a minute!" McCormick interjected. "I go up against Bucky Lastra talk him into this scheme and all I get is 'no problem'?

The Judge swallowed his chunk of beef. He put down his utensils, looking at the cooling supper with a sigh. "Let's just say that Anita has it sewed up," Hardcastle answered dismissively. "She can get a dog for us tomorrow, one Lastra doesn't know."

Mark laughed tightly, his brows furrowing as he shook his head in disbelief.

"What?" Hardcastle answered as he tossed his hands up.

"You seem to think that everything is so easy. What is this, some confiscated dog?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. It's a dog confiscated from another state. This one was picked up only a few days ago and hasn't been turned into the pit bull rescue just yet." Hardcastle coughed and tuned his head away in a gesture Mark had learned meant the Judge was hiding something.

"A fresh fighter," Mark mused. "One that knows the routine…which I don't." He drummed his fingers on the table, his breakfast untouched. "I'm starting to feel a little used Judge." He cast a firm eye in Hardcastle's direction.

Hardcastle shifted in his seat. McCormick had a great street sense about him, which was both a pro and a con. "You can't go in with a rehabbed pup if you expect to be respected. The dog needs to put up a good fight, at least. He needs to make you reputable. This dog will."

McCormick met Hardcastle's stare. He couldn't work the job without the info. In a situation like this, every hour counted. "Okay, I buy that. But I don't know the commands, the protocol." He tried to keep the whine out of his voice.

"Anita will help you with that. She plans to bring you with her to a fight tonight. You're her new 'interest'. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. She'll do the work." Hardcastle coughed, clearing his throat as he stared into Mark's eyes.

Mark shook his head, staring at Hardcastle. "You're piece of work, you know that?" he responded with a disgusted snort. "You set me up as Anita's arm candy and then send me off to fight your battle." He shook his head.

"In or out McCormick?"

Mark bit his lip. Hell or purgatory.

"In."

McCormick sat at breakfast the next morning hunched over, eyes cast down and shoulders slumped. No sound of surf, no soft California breeze, or warm caressing sun ray could entice him to sit up straight.

"I'm sorry Judge, but this sucks," McCormick sounded. "You get to sit here and I have to watch a dog kill another dog, see the eyes of the mortally injured look to the owner questioning, looking for approval. I watched as a dog was ripped to its death. And worse, Anita walked me through the proving ground where small pets like Chihuahuas and toy breeds were nothing but bait!" McCormick didn't hide the pain in his voice. "The little dogs just stood wagging their tails…waiting for a friendly hand to pat them." He caught himself, placing a rough hand against his mouth and rubbing it as he left his eyes downcast.

Hardcastle interrupted. "I know it stinks, that's why we're going against this guy. Yeah we won't shut everything down, but if we get this done fast, those little pets might just get back to their owners and a bunch of pitbull could come out of the fighting ring and get rehabbed."

"And Bucky Lastra goes down," McCormack didn't even look up at the judge.

"That's right," Hardcastle answered with a razor edge to his voice. "He's done a lot of rotten stuff, this included. He needs to pay the price."

"It won't be enough, trust me Judge," McCormick replied with a disillusioned sigh.

"You're right about that," Hardcastle agreed as he leaned towards his younger charge. "But the alternative is to let him ride on this and maybe find something else to get him on later. At least this way he gets some jail time and we help the animals."

Mark nodded reluctantly. Making a dent in this vicious sport was better than turning a blind eye. But he knew that this little adventure of the Judges would exact a toll on him, one he'd carry with him as surely as his prison years.

"How long will this take?" he demanded more than asked. "Because I don't know how much I can take…" his voice cracked and Mark struggled for a few seconds to pull himself together.

"Not long I sincerely hope," the judge answered sympathetically. And I plan to be there with you when the whole thing goes down."

"Yeah?" Mark replied with a sad smile. "That would be nice."

Hardcastle didn't answer. He could see the pain he was causing Mark. Justice sometimes did exact its cost, but it bothered him that Mark was the recipient. It should have been himself. But that would have been impossible. Bucky Lastra would surely have recognized him and the sting would have been aborted.

No, he wouldn't let Mark do this alone. He'd be there one way or another on the night it all went down.

The next two days Mark got an education that he'd never asked for or would ever have wanted. He found that dog fighting wasn't the sport that fanciers claimed, but a brutal and degrading debacle to both the dogs and any person with a sense of humanity. Street Mark knew that sometimes you did what you needed to survive. You let the mind grow numb and survival instincts guide you. Street wasn't very much different than school; you listened, nodded appropriately, sucked it in and spit it out rote, in spite of what you really knew. It was about pleasing the person with power; it was about absorbing the lesson and learning despite the teacher's ignorance. And in the end doing what had to be done.

There was no anger or spite toward Anita, she was only a vice cop doing her job. She had the whole cop mindset that she was better than the street people…that the law was always right in spite of the situation…and that justice always triumphed. Mark understood her, but didn't agree with the whole package. She could show him films, demonstrate with "his dog" and put him through the paces with the animal; it was all a take down to her. It was clinical, sterile; Point A to point B to point C. But in reality, Mark wasn't a handler. He was Milton C Hardcastle's go to guy. He was an ex-com who knew cars not dogs, and he was an unwilling participant in a dog fighting take down. Only for Hardcastle…

He reached automatically down to pat Jet, the brindle AmStaff rescue's head, but was drawn up short by Anita's harsh command.

"No! He must **work** for your affection! Only then can you let him know he's done a good job."

Mark shook his head, biting back a smart response. He had only to finish this assignment. He looked down at the animal who stared sadly up at him. He would hopefully walk away unscathed. This dog would be lucky to live…or maybe not. But he was working for the law now, not the streets and a whole new set of rules applied. In this case the law was supposed to be protecting the dog, but instead it knowing risked the animal's safety and likely its life.

Mark understood the dog's dilemma only too well. He stared down at it and tried to convey sympathy without Anita seeing it. Jet seemed to understand. He lifted his head a little and cocked it slightly. One ragged ear raised and the brindle pit's mouth dropped open in huge grin. He snuck an affectionate stroke along the dog's jaw and felt it lean in to him. What Anita didn't know wouldn't hurt any of them.

Mark groaned inwardly. This whole adventure was a double edged sword. Sacrifice one dog for the good of many…sacrifice one handyman/buddy/gofer's conscience and sense of right for the sake of Milton C. Hardcastle and all doggiedom, or at least all area doggiedom.

He turned his eyes away from his dog, lips tight. There had to be a way work all the angles, get Lastra, stop the dog fights and keep Jet from dying.

Anita's voice demanded his attention, a trumpeter's Reville drawing him back to action.

Hardcastle stared at McCormack's sleeping form. He'd seen the light on in the Gate house until almost 4AM. Insomnia was no stranger to the Judge, though Mark knew nothing of this. And now as the sun peeked over the horizon and their normal rising time was imminent the judge had come out of the big house with the intent to wake McCormick. But when he entered the gate house and found his young charge so soundly asleep, and with the judge's robe belt tightly clasped in his hand, Hardcastle decided to simply sit and wait.

He plunked himself down into a comfortable armchair that his late wife had picked out and stared across at McCormick. The kid tried hard to please; he was the golden retriever of kids. And Hardcastle knew that this current assignment was guaranteed to take a toll. The kid had no childhood. Bonding with a dog, and one destined for disfigurement or death wasn't rational but more often than not McCormick let his heart lead him.

The Judge sighed and leaned back. The old chair groaned softly. McCormick turned over, still sleeping and assumed a more comfortable position. The robe tie wrapped around him and as he squirmed it drew tighter. The judge felt a knot forming in his gut. Here he was binding Mark yet again without even touching him! He'd asked a lot out of the young man these last few years. And yes the boy did have a habit of complaining, but in the end he did what Hardcastle asked, even if it put him in danger.

Hardcastle stood with agility. Let the kid sleep late today. Tonight was his dog fight. And Hardcastle would be there. Sure Bucky Lastra knew him as did probably a good many of the people who would be there. But he didn't have to go as himself, that's what disguises were for and heck, the kid might need him. Besides, he had to carry out his half of the plan.

He padded softly out of the room, walking down the stairs carefully to prevent them from creaking. As he opened the door to step out into the crisp clear air a thought struck him. How would he get his robe tie back without letting McCormick know about it?

Mark stared across the packed warehouse taking in the sea of people, undulating like waves as they milled about assessing the dogs. They were a hard lot, more interested in money than love or caring. His hands bunched into fists in his pockets. If Jet was here he would be stroking the sleek and powerful dog, but instead the fighter was being cared for by his rival as insurance that no tampering was being done, just as Mark had the other man's dog, a liver and white pit that had come docilely with him and now waited quietly in a cage.

Jet had the first fight of the night, which was both good and bad. If everything went well he'd provoke a little action and shut things down early, maybe saving all the dogs. If things went badly, well he wouldn't be able to do anything and half of the dogs here tonight would die, maybe more. Mark paced behind the crowd, his heart thumping as the minutes passed and the hour hand grew closer to the time when Jet would have to enter the ring. The heat rose in the building and the scent of sweat started to be evident as the crowd grew in size. There was no heat in the building, but it wasn't needed. The crowd provided plenty of it.

McCormick felt a shove at his back and almost stumbled, but instead caught himself.

"Hey!" he called out and whirled around to see who was getting rough with him.

It was a drunk, wearing filthy clothes and clutching a bottle cloaked in a brown bag. He had a cap pulled low over his brow and his chest pocket bulged with cash. Mark recoiled as the man spoke with deliberately slurred speech but noticed no scent of alcohol on his breath. There was something too familiar about the broad chest and square shoulders, and the swagger.

"Judge!" McCormick whispered, aghast.

"Don't blow my cover!" Hardcastle fumed quietly. "I'm trying to cover your back!"

"_My back_?" McCormick questioned.

"Yes! Your back!" The judge tipped his head down and swayed off balance as a couple of patrons drew near. He belched and let the scent of his dirty clothing become his personal barrier. The couple took a wide berth around the two men.

Mark turned back to the Judge. "Where did you get the …uh…clothes? And what exactly are you doing here?"

"Never mind the clothes!" The Judge hissed in frustration. "What I'm doing is getting you out of this as quickly and successfully as possible."

"How are you doing this?" Mark asked uncertainly. He could hear the chatter increasing as the announcer took center ring.

"Look kid, when Bucky Lastra takes my money to make book for the dog fight I'll signal you."

"And I'll do what?"

"Get up and help me! I'm guessing he'll avoid arrest, make a scene, people may panic… you get the picture."

"But what about the dogs?" McCormack's voice pleaded.

The Judge hesitated staring into McCormack's eyes. This wasn't about Bucky Lastra to Mark. It was about the dogs.

"I don't know about the dogs," the Judge admitted candidly. "Maybe something can be done…" his voice trailed off for a second then he cleared his throat. "But it saves the other dogs."

Mark shook his head in disgust, running a hand through his hair and snorting. He turned away from Hardcastle and tried to push his feeling of revulsion back down, but couldn't. He whirled back and got right into the Judge's face.

"Jet is doing our work out there. He's a foot patrolman asked to do a dangerous job and blindly obeying. Would you leave your own cop behind?" His voice was low and dangerous, leaving the judge to consider that maybe he was asking both the dog and the kid to do too much. The kid looked and sounded about a minute away from snapping.

The Judge scrubbed a big hand over his square jaw, sucking in his upper lip pensively. He noticed a few patrons looking their way and knew he had to act a little drunker and mollify Mark. He swayed on his feet, put the brown bagged bottle to his lips and swigged the water in the vodka bottle. He fell heavily against Mark.

"Listen kid, I appreciate your point. We'll do the best we can for the dog, just as we would for any officer." He carefully avoided using the dog's name. "Go down there and do your job so I can do mine. We need teamwork if we're going to see this thing through."

Mark shook his head tight lipped. The announcer was introducing the first match. The handlers were readying the dogs. He turned away from the judge wordlessly and strode back over to the fight ring, his hands tight fists and muscles taut.

The Judge stumbled backward, feigning a fall then righted himself. He stood on wobbly legs and in a deliberate zigzag pattern wound his way over to where Bucky Lastra was making book.

At the center of the warehouse an improvised pit dominated the crowded space. It was penned off with thick wire fencing and a barrier wall extended several feet beyond that to restrain heavy bettors who became too rambunctious in urging on the dogs. Mark watched as a handler walked Jet to the pit from the opposite side and his own handler walked the liver colored dog to the ring to decimate Jet.

As the dogs approached the pit, they became more alert, scenting the competition, pulling against their leashes and whining, turning their faces to the handler for encouragement, praise and back to the quarry.

Mark's stomach churned as Jet strained toward the pit, the liver pit bull snarling and making for Mark's charge.

"Jet!" he whispered helplessly as the dogs were unleashed. His heart pounded as the dogs charged eachother soundlessly, racing on padded feet and coming almost to the center of the pit before they collided in a blur of sleek fur and slashing teeth. Mark watched as Jet reflexively tucked his head and bit toward the liver pit's throat as the other dog latched firmly onto Jets ear and head, its jaw locking.

Jet caught the side of the Liver pit's neck, not close enough to the windpipe or jugular vein to terminate the fight, but he sunk his teeth in and pulled. The crowd roared. Blood was flowing and the fight was on. Mark turned away in revulsion, noticing the Judge weaving unsteadily towards Bucky Lastra. He could hear the roar of the crowd grow as his stomach churned and he fought with the conflicting desires to check out how Jet was doing or not look and protect himself.

The Judge had reached Bucky Lastra and was exchanging words with him, poking him in the chest and patting his empty pocket as Lastra's men moved towards the two purposely. Lastra clutched a book to his chest and shook his head.

Mark knew he should be watching the Judge, but he cast his eyes back at the pit. The dogs had moved apart briefly and were launching themselves at the other once again. Jet was missing most of an ear. The Liver pit was sporting a gaping wound along the side of his neck. The animals were airborne when they attached to each other, falling to the hard dirt floor of the pit, curled around each other with jaws locked and blood and drool flying, feet trying to claw a hold into the opponent's soft abdomen. Mark recoiled in horror.

Jet was latched onto the other dog at the throat, but not solidly as the Liver Pit had managed to get its jaws on Jet's face. Mark wondered if the other Pit was doing serious damage, its teeth clamped way too close to Jet's eye. The fight was mesmerizing in a horrifying way.

From the crowd Mark barely registered the Judges voice, vociferously protesting to Bucky Lastra that his bet should be nullified, that he'd bet every penny on a loser when he was trashed, that a bet taken from a drunk shouldn't count. Bucky wasn't having any of it. Money was money, even for drunks. But then a nasty edge in the prior soft controlled voice that answered the Judge caught Marks attention fully.

The sight of the dogs locked in mortal combat, the sounds of their pain stifled, and the frantic shouts of the crowd all faded away as Mark focused only on the steely command of the voice turned icy.

"Get _rid _of him." The finality made the rest need no further explanation.

Mark focused with an intensity he hadn't called on since his racing days, spotting the judge, being hauled unceremoniously away by 3 muscle bound thugs who probably had toenails larger than their brains. The Judge's feet where off the ground and kicking but out of reach of any soft spots when they could do some harm. Mark had no doubt that the Judges toes hurt more than the tree trunk legs of Bucky Lastra's guards. He forged forward, fighting the straining crowd, edging upward on the incline that insured decent views for everyone while trying to move as quicker than Lastra's men.

The crowd parted to let the Judge be forcibly escorted away, but Mark had to shove and elbow through the unyielding crowd as they fell back into place like the parted Red Sea on the ancient Egyptians, feeling his anxiety rising to the boiling point. It was hard to keep the Judge in his sights but he fought back with vehemence, head up and shoulders hunched against the force of the mass of people pressing back against him.

It was no different than fighting his way through a wall of race cars all trying to keep him behind, a loser, the one with no heart or skill or courage, or maybe even the one with the worst luck. Mark rounded his shoulders and surged forward, mindless of the angry shouts of the fight patrons he pushed aside as he forged towards the Judge.

He saw Lastra's goons, push toward the door and doubled his efforts to reach them. The people in his way were more interested in a dog fight.

"Jet!" he screamed without looking. "Jet!" It would work or not. He stared ahead as Buckey's men came closer to the door shouldering his way though the mass of people.

He was barely aware of the gasp of the crowd, the murmur of excitement and turn of head. It was only as he saw a blur of bloody dog parting the people and making its way to him as if it knew his shouted prayer was true. The dog was at his side and the people were giving them both a wide berth as he drew closer to the Judge, the parting crowd a boon to his efforts.

The men carrying the Judge looked back at the steadying quietness of the bettors. One dog in the pit wouldn't carry the bet if the second wasn't dead.

Mark pointed at the men carrying the judge. "Get!" he commanded.

Jet was off like an SST, blood droplets flying, torn flesh hanging, tongue lolling, all heart and obedience, wanting only to please. Mark struggled to keep up, his path made easier by the parting of the crowd in Jets' anticipated path. He glanced over his shoulder and confirmed that Bucky Lastra was hemmed in tightly by the incredulous crowd.

Jet had reached the Judge and his captors and sailed at them with a powerful thrust of his hind legs. His jaws latched onto the wrist of the nearest, clamping down. The man cried out and let go of Hardcastle, trying to shake off the dog that clung tenaciously, leaving two other men attached to the Judge.

Mark arrived and let his adrenaline rush do his work. He swung for the smaller of the two men, landing a solid right onto the man's jaw and rocking his head. He saw the man fighting to keep his knees from buckling. The first man had been released by Jet and lay on the floor cradling his lacerated arm. The wrist might have been broken, Mark mused as he noticed the odd angle of the hand.

The Judge had an arm free. He used it handily to place a crushing punch to the third man's jaw. Mark watched in satisfaction as the captor crumbled. The Judge was more than capable of handling things now.

"Jet!" Mark commanded once again and the dog let go of Hardcastle's final captor. "GO!" he commanded as he pointed to Bucky Lastra, who was standing and looking frantically for an escape rout, his book clasped close to his chest.

Jet sailed to where Mark pointed as the Judge grabbed one of his captors and Mark the other. The injured man wasn't going anywhere. The crowd was dispersing, fighting to get through the door before the police arrived. The other handler had fled, leaving his dog as a throw away.

"No!" the judge yelled at Mark, who watched Jet sail through the crowd toward Bucky Lastra. "I have an undercover here! Don't risk the dog! They'll shoot him!"

Mark saw one lone woman moving the opposite direction of the crowd, directly in Bucky Lastra's direction. Anita! Behind her trailed a phalanx of stony faced young men, cops for sure Mark figured, and he could pick one out from a crowd easy.

"Jet NO!" Mark hollered his voice seeming no louder than a soft wind over the roar of the frightened and departing crowd.

He needn't have worried. Anita turned to the dog. She held a hand up and spoke commandingly. "Jet, stop!" The muscular dog put on the brakes as Anita maintained eye contact. "Good boy!" she responded and reached out to pat Jet's bloody head.

"Bucky Lastra, you're under arrest for participating in illegal dog fighting, for bookmaking and for money laundering." She reached out for Lastra pulling his coveted book away, Jet attentively at her side, pulling out a set of handcuffs and slapped them on Buckey's wrist.

Mark stood open mouthed. Anita was kind of hot when she subdued both the dog and the criminal…and the handcuffs…he wouldn't like that, but she handled them so deftly…

"Come on!" the Judge urged. "Let's get these guys down to Anita!"

Mark laid back in the chaise lounge, letting the sun beat down on him at the pools deck. He wondered why the Judge needed a pool with a great beach and fine surf only a few steps away. Money, he figured. That's what it all boiled down to mostly. Money proved you didn't need what the world had to offer, it was all at your fingertips. But then, the Judge had inherited the property so it wouldn't do to "judge" him too severely.

"I thought you'd like to know that Bucky Lastra is going to get some hard time."

"Yeah Hardcastle, but the trial hasn't happened yet."

"Nope, but this one will go down easy. The dog fighting angle will make the jurors soft, more than willing to put this guy away for anything. The pictures of Jet and the testimony alone will convict him."

"What about Jet?" Marks voice was soft, concerned. "Can we get him back, maybe keep him?

"Jet's in doggy rehab and his wounds are healing nicely, though he'll be missing an external ear flap," the Judge answered. "If he responds positively he'll find a loving home."

"If he doesn't?"

"McCormick, how can you even pose that question? The dog never once acted on his own. Jet is dog who wants to please. He just needs to learn a new set of commands."

"Can _we_ get him back after?"

"Now you're pushing me!" The Judge pulled his cap down lower on his face, not wanting Mark to see that he wanted Jet too. It wouldn't work out. Jet needed a family who would be there for him, not chasing off at all hours, gone for some long periods. The dog needed a stable home. Hardcastle could feel Marks longing for a dog. He wondered if his friend had ever had one, or only dreamed about it.

"So McCormack, have you ever had a dog?"

"Nope, never had a home that supported one."

McCormick felt the compassion is the Judges question, knew that what he was really asking was if Mark had ever had the unconditional love a dog, or a loving parent offered. He hadn't, until now.

Mark let the Judges robe tie drop silently beneath his lounger, wondering when the eagle eyed judge would spot it.

The End

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23


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